Crave (Crave Series)

by Tracy Wolff

  “You kissing Jaxon is for the greater good?” I open the book to the first page.

  “Me kissing Jaxon as your proxy is definitely for the greater good. Put you both out of your misery.” She bats her eyelashes. “Though it definitely wouldn’t be a sacrifice.”

  “How about we make a pact? You keep your lips off Jaxon and I’ll keep mine off Cam?”

  “Wooo!” Macy shouts so loud, it makes me jump. “I knew last night you were into him, with your babbling and your I-we-he stuff.”

  “I didn’t say I was into him.” But it’s kind of hard not to fall for him at least a little after a morning like this one.

  “You didn’t say you weren’t, either.”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t you have a class to go to?”

  “Trying to get rid of me?” But she climbs off my bed, starts straightening her hair in the mirror over the dresser.

  “I am, yes.” I hold up the book. “I want to start reading.”

  “I bet you do.” She makes kissy faces at me. “Oh, Edward, I love you so much! Whoops, I mean Jaxon.”

  I throw a pillow at her, but she just laughs and grabs her backpack. Then she gives me a quick wave before heading out the door.

  The second Macy’s gone, I sink back onto the bed and hold Twilight to my chest. Jaxon sent me a love story. I mean, yeah, it’s about a vampire, but it’s still a love story. And that quote… I didn’t want to show it in front of my cousin, but swooooooooon.

  I grab my phone and fire off a text to Jaxon.

  Me: Swoon emoji

  Jaxon: Don’t get too starry-eyed

  Jaxon: It’s supposed to be a warning

  Jaxon: Winky kiss emoji

  Me: Of what?

  Jaxon: Things that go bump in the night

  Jaxon: You never can be too careful

  Me: I like scary stories

  Jaxon: But do you like the monsters in them?

  Me: I guess it depends on the monster

  Jaxon: I guess we’ll see, then, won’t we?

  Me: I don’t know what that means

  I start to text more—his mood is so different than it was earlier, and I want to get to the bottom of the change—but there’s yet another knock on my door.

  Me: Hey, did you send me something else????????

  Jaxon: Why don’t you open the door and find out?

  Me: That sounds like a yes

  Me: You don’t have to do this, you know

  Me: I mean, I appreciate it so much

  Me: But it’s not necessary

  Jaxon: Grace

  Jaxon: Open the door

  I start making my way across the room to the door, thrilled that since the Advil kicked in, walking doesn’t hurt as much, and my limp is a lot less pronounced. Then, right before I open the door, I text:

  Me: How do you know I haven’t already opened the door?

  “Because I think I would have noticed,” he answers from where he’s standing on the other side of the beaded curtain.

  “Jaxon!” I squeak out his name, my free hand going to my hair automatically in an effort to smooth down the mess. “You’re here.”

  He lifts a brow. “You want me to go?”

  “No, of course not! Come on in.” I hold the door open as I step back.

  “Thanks.” He jerks a little as he steps over the threshold and Macy’s beads brush against him.

  “I don’t know why Macy insists on keeping those up when they shock people on the regular,” I say, swatting the annoying things out of the way so I can close the door. “Are you okay?”

  “I have no idea.” His eyes meet mine for the first time, and the happiness bubbling inside me dies down as I realize the blankness is back.

  “Oh, well.” I duck my head, suddenly way self-conscious around this guy who I’ve had no trouble talking to all day. “Thanks for the book.”

  He shakes his head, but at least he’s smiling when he answers. “I thought it might give you something to do while you’re resting your ankle.” He looks at me pointedly.

  “Hey, I was in bed. You’re the one who knocked on my door.”

  His eyes widen a little at my mention of being in bed, and then we both do the only thing we can do in the situation—stare awkwardly at my rumpled hot-pink sheets and comforter.

  “Do you, um—” I clear my suddenly clogged throat. “Do you want to sit down?”

  He makes a face, then moves in a negative motion but seconds later does the opposite and plops down at the end of my bed. All the way in the corner, like he’s afraid I’m going to bite him—or jump him.

  It’s such an un-Jaxon-like move that for a second, I just kind of stare at him. And then decide, screw it. I’m not going to spend the next hour feeling awkward. I’m just not. So I flop down on the bed next to him and ask, “What did one bone say to the other bone?”

  He eyes me warily, but his shoulders relax—and so does the rest of him. “I don’t think I want to know.”

  I ignore him. “We have to stop meeting at this joint.”

  He groans. “That was…”

  “Fabulous?” I tease.

  He shakes his head. “Really, really awful.” But he’s smirking, and finally I can see something in the depths of his eyes—something real, instead of that terrible blankness.

  Determined to keep it that way, I tell him, “It’s kind of a specialty of mine.”

  “Bad jokes?”

  “Terrible jokes. I inherited the talent from my mother.”

  He lifts a brow. “So terrible jokes run in the DNA?”

  “Oh, it’s totally a gene,” I agree. “Right next to the ones for curly hair and long eyelashes.” I bat my eyes at him to make a point, much the way Macy did to me a little while ago.

  “Are you sure you didn’t get it from both sides?” he asks, face totally innocent.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Just that your jokes are really terrible.”

  “Hey! You said you liked my octopus joke.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” He reaches for my leg, drapes my foot and ankle over his lap. “It seemed rude to kick you when you were down and out.”

  “Hey! I may be down, but I’m not out.” I try to pull my foot back, but Jaxon holds me in place, his long, elegant fingers instinctively finding the spots that hurt the most and massaging them.

  I moan a little because the massage feels really good. And so does having his hands on me. “How are you so good at that?” I ask when I can finally speak again.

  He shrugs, shoots me a little smirk. “Maybe I inherited it.”

  It’s the first time he’s mentioned any family except his one cryptic comment about his brother yesterday, and I jump on it. “Did you?”

  He stops for a second—his hand, his breath, everything—and just looks at me with those eyes I try so hard to find emotion in. And then he says, “No.”

  His fingers start back on their massage like they never even stopped.

  It frustrates me, but not enough to push when he has No Trespassing signs posted all over himself in huge black letters. Which says a lot more about him than he could possibly imagine.

  We spend the next couple of minutes in silence as he massages my foot until the ache is almost completely gone. Only then, when his fingers finally still for good, does he say, “My eyes.”

  My gaze darts to his. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s what I got from my mother. My eyes.”

  “Oh.” I lean forward until I can once again see the silver flecks against the darkness of his irises. “They’re beautiful eyes.” Especially when he’s looking at me the way he is now—a little bemused, a little intrigued, a lot surprised. “Did you
inherit anything else from your mother?” I ask softly.

  “I hope not.” His words are low, unguarded, and it’s the first time he’s ever been so open with me.

  I search for something to say that won’t break the mood, but it’s too late. The second he registers what he said, Jaxon’s entire face closes up.

  “I need to go,” he tells me, setting my foot gently on the bed before getting to his feet.

  “Please don’t.” It’s barely more than a whisper, but the sentiment comes from deep inside me. I feel like I’m seeing the real Jaxon for the first time up close and personal, and I don’t want to lose that.

  He pauses, and for a moment, I think he might actually listen to me. But then he’s reaching inside the pocket of his designer jacket and pulling out a rolled-up piece of paper that’s been fastened with a black satin ribbon.

  He holds it out to me.

  I take it with hands that I have to will to stay steady. “You didn’t have to—”

  “It made me think of you.” He reaches up, takes a gentle hold of one of my curls, as has become his habit. But this time, he doesn’t stretch it out and let it boing back into place. Instead, he simply worries it between his fingers.

  Our eyes meet, and suddenly the room feels about twenty degrees hotter. My breath catches in my throat, and I bite my lower lip in an effort to keep myself from saying—or doing—something we’re not ready for.

  Except Jaxon looks like he might be ready for all kinds of things, with his gaze fastened on my mouth and his body swaying toward me just a little.

  And then he’s reaching out, pressing his thumb against my lip until I get the hint and stop biting it.

  “Jaxon.” I reach for him, but he’s already across the room, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Rest that ankle,” he tells me as he opens the door. “If it feels better tomorrow, I’ll take you to my favorite place.”

  “Which is?”

  He quirks a brow, tilts his head. And doesn’t say another word as he slips into the hall and closes the door behind him.

  I stare after him, the scrolled-up piece of paper he gave me still in my hand. And wonder how on earth I’m going to keep this beautiful, broken boy from cracking my already battered heart wide open.

  26

  The Uniform

  Doesn’t Make the Woman,

  But it Sure Does Bring

  Out the Insecurities

  Pants or skirt?

  I stare at my closet and all the clothes neatly lined up in it, courtesy of my cousin. I know I should have done this last night, but after a giant plate of nachos followed by three episodes of Legacies and a marathon gossip session over my jam-packed day, I didn’t have the energy to do much more than lie in bed and think about Jaxon.

  I turn toward my desk—and the paper Jaxon brought me yesterday, which is lying directly under the copy of Twilight he sent me. Not because I don’t like it but because I like it too much, and I don’t want to share it with anyone. Not even Macy or Heather.

  It’s a page ripped straight out of a copy of Anaïs Nin’s journals—I don’t know which one, because the heading doesn’t say. I almost googled it yesterday to find out, but there’s something special about not knowing, something intimate about having only this one page of her diary to go by. To have only these words that Jaxon wanted me to see.

  Deep down, I am not different from you. I dreamed you, I wished for your existence.

  The page has a lot more than that simple phrase on it, but as I read and reread it about a hundred times yesterday, these are the words that jumped out at me over and over again. Partly because they were so swoon-worthy and partly because I’m starting to feel the same way about him. About Jaxon, whose deepest thoughts and heart and pain seem to so closely echo mine.

  It’s a lot to take in at any time, let alone on my first day, when my mouth is dry and my stomach is churning with nerves.

  Which is why I’m currently standing here, in front of my closet with absolutely no idea of what to wear. Because I obviously worried about the wrong first-day stuff…

  Do the girls usually wear their uniform pants or skirts here? Or doesn’t it matter? I try to remember what Macy wore the last couple of days, but it’s all a blank besides the tropical-print snow pants she wore for the snowball fight.

  “Skirt,” Macy says as she walks out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her head. “There are wool tights to go with it in the bottom drawer of your dresser.”

  I close my eyes in relief. Thank God for cousins.

  “Awesome, thanks.” I slip one of the black skirts off the hanger and step into it, then add a white blouse and black blazer before going over to my dresser for a pair of black tights.

  “If you wear the blouse, you’ve also got to wear the tie,” Macy tells me as she opens one of my dresser drawers and pulls out a black tie with purple and silver stripes on it.

  “Seriously?” I demand, looking from her to the tie and back again.

  “Seriously.” She drapes it around my neck. “Do you know how to tie one?”

  “Not a clue.” I head back toward the closet. “Maybe I should go for one of the polo shirts.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll show you. It’s a lot easier than it looks.”

  “If you say so.”

  She grins. “I do say so.”

  She starts by draping the tie unevenly around my neck and wrapping the longer end over the shorter end. A couple more wraps and a tuck and pull through—all narrated by my cousin—and I’ve got a perfectly tied tie around my neck…even if it is a little tight.

  “Looks good,” Macy says as she steps back to admire her handiwork. “I mean, the knot’s not as fancy as some of the guys wear, but it gets the job done.”

  “Thanks. I’ll look up a couple of videos on YouTube this afternoon, make sure I know what I’m doing before I have to tie it again tomorrow.”

  “It’s pretty easy. You’ll get the hang of it in no time. In fact—” She breaks off at the loud knock on our door.

  “Are you expecting someone?” I ask as I move toward the door, motioning for her to move back toward the bathroom, as all she’s currently wearing is a towel.

  “No. I usually meet my friends in the cafeteria.” Her eyes go wide. “Do you think it’s Jaxon?” She whispers his name like she’s afraid he’ll hear it through the door.

  “I didn’t think so, no.” But now that she’s planted the idea in my head… Ugh. My already nervous stomach does a series of somersaults. “What do I do?” My own voice drops to a whisper without the conscious decision to do so on my part. He texted me last night before bed, but I haven’t seen him since he came to my room yesterday around lunch, and after lying awake half the night thinking about him, I’m feeling hella awkward.

  She looks at me like I’m missing the obvious. “Answer the door?”

  “Right.” I smooth my sweaty palms down the sides of my skirt and reach for the door handle. I have no idea what to do, what to say…although judging by how tight this ridiculous tie suddenly feels, I may not be able to say anything at all before it actually strangles me.

  I glance back at Macy, who shoots me an encouraging thumbs-up one last time, then take as deep a breath as I can manage before pulling open the door.

  All my nerves dissipate in the space from one strangled breath to the next, largely because the person standing at our door is most definitely not Jaxon Vega.

  “Hi, Uncle Finn! How are you?”

  “Hi, Gracey girl.” He leans down and drops an absentminded kiss on the top of my head. “I just stopped by to check on your ankle and finally deliver your schedule.” He holds a blue sheet of paper out to me. “And to wish you luck on your first day of class. You’re going to do great!”

  I’m not so sure about that, but I’m determined to think positive today, so I smile
and say, “Thanks. I’m excited. And my ankle’s sore, but okay.”

  “Good. I made sure you got into that art class you wanted and that you have our best history teacher, since that’s your favorite subject. But check over your schedule, make sure you’re not repeating any classes. I did my best, but mistakes happen.”

  He tweaks my cheek like I’m a five-year-old. It’s such a Dad thing to do that my heart aches a little.

  “I’m sure it’s perfect,” I tell him.

  Macy snorts. “Don’t bet on it. If Dad did it himself instead of letting Mrs. Haversham do it, no telling what he’s got you signed up for.”

  “Mrs. Haversham did it,” he tells her with a wink. “I just supervised. Brat.” He walks over and gives her a one-armed shoulder hug and the same kiss on the top of her head that he gave me.

  “Ready for that math test today?” he asks.

  “Been ready for a week.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Good. And how’s that English project going? Did you finish—?”

  “This is a boarding school,” Macy interrupts, smacking lightly at his arm. “That means parents don’t get to give their kids the third degree over every assignment.”

  “That’s because they don’t know about every assignment. I, however, do. Which means I get to check up on you whenever I want.”

  “Lucky me,” she deadpans.

  He just grins. “Exactly.”

  “Are you going to get out of here so I can get dressed? Grace and I still need to hit the cafeteria before class. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, after all.”

  “Not if you waste it on cherry Pop-Tarts.”

  “Cherry Pop-Tarts are their own food group.” She glances my way. “Back me up here, Grace.”

  “Maybe two food groups, if you count the frosting,” I agree. “So are the brown sugar ones.”

  “Exactly what I’m talking about!”

  It’s Uncle Finn’s turn to roll his eyes. But he drops another kiss on her head before heading for the door. “Do your old man a favor and grab some fruit with those Pop-Tarts, will you?”

  “Cherries are fruit,” I tease him.